


conference

by pseudocitrus



Series: dawn disrupts me [5]
Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 00:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5806096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the distance, down the corridor, Urie is walking towards him, and by the time Mutsuki realizes it, it’s too late to turn back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	conference

**Author's Note:**

> written to catch this au up with what's going on with the manga. a couple more (loosely-written) details for what transpired "in this au" can be found in [my tag for this au](http://pseudocitrus.tumblr.com/tagged/dawn-disrupts-me-au) on tumblr. hope you're having a good day!

In the distance, down the corridor, Urie is walking towards him, and by the time Mutsuki realizes it, it’s too late to turn back. He proceeds, preparing himself.

“Hello,” he says, as they pass, and Urie nods at him. _Hello._

Urie is already behind him when Mutsuki turns and clears his throat.

“Urie-kun,” he calls, and to his relief, Urie stops. The back of his head is shaved, a bit, Mutsuki realizes. Urie turns and regards him.

“How are you?” Mutsuki asks, and Urie thinks about it, and replies, “Fine.”

For once Mutsuki isn’t sure if Urie is serious, and the realization drops something into his stomach that gnaws. He walks back, joins, reaches and unravels any thread of conversation he can think of, stepping closer with each question.

Your squad?

Saiko-chan?

Your training?

Your health?

Your diet?

_Fine. Whatever. Fine, fine, fine._ Urie palms his glove through his hair as he speaks, unconcerned. He is a canvas whited over, accepting any color. Mutsuki shouldn’t then, he absolutely should not, but there is something too false about their dialogue, and he knows exactly where the paint peels.

“How about Shirazu-kun?” he asks, and Urie’s eyes narrow. This time, there’s a hesitation.

“…it’s the same,” he says. He looks down, adjusts his gloves. “But don’t worry about it. I’m taking care of it.”

“It’s not _him_ I’m worrying about,” Mutsuki protests, and his fist tightens and his teeth grit, and at that moment his own paint begins to scrape.

They are face to face now, and the chasm that had broken between them during the funeral and widened with every passing day seems suddenly to smash its jagged edges together in his chest. His ribs collide. The impact reverberates, makes his legs shaky.

_I’ve been thinking about you_ , Mutsuki wants to say.

_I keep waiting for your voice on missions._

_On my last assignment I was late because I kept waiting for your silhouette to catch up beside me._

_My new place is even more filled than the Chateau is now, but it still feels…_

_…so. I work late…and I have dinner on my own._

_And after that…I go to sleep…on my own._

_Urie-kun._

_Is it…the same for you?_

Urie strokes his hand through his hair, again. Is this some kind of new gesture? Another new thing that Mutsuki can’t interpret? Mutsuki searches. Urie frowns at him, and sighs, and then frowns even more deeply.

“What?” Mutsuki asks, and Urie’s nose wrinkles.

“…you were with Takeomi?” he asks.

“Ah…yeah,” Mutsuki says in confusion. “For lunch.”

“Why?” Urie asks. His voice is sharp. Abruptly, Mutsuki feels a little sharp too.

“Well,” Mutsuki responds, “he asked.”

Their gazes meet. Mutsuki starts to turn, and Urie grabs his wrist, swiftly. His grip is firm, but he lets go when Mutsuki turns back. They pause; and then, as one, their gazes skate away, to the same place.

There’s a door to a conference room nearby, the least beloved in HQ, due to its lack of windows and its proximity to something in the building’s cooling system that renders the room cold and with a perpetual rumble emanating from behind its walls. No one ever wants to use it, and they enter it, swiftly. Despite the rumbling, the sound of the door locking is surprisingly loud.

It’s been a while since their last meeting. They tried, once, but even a week after the funeral their fingertips had felt cold and never warmed.

_It’s just not the right mood,_  Mutsuki reassured himself, _it just feels — wrong, right now, only right now_ , but things had never quite thawed.

Maybe, now, enough time has passed; and yet suddenly, there seems like not enough of it. Urie’s gloves are cool on his cheeks, but supple, and soft; he draws Mutsuki’s mouth to his, and Mutsuki sighs as their lips meet.

It’s only brief. The next moment, Urie tilts Mutsuki’s face upward, exposing his throat to a trail of kisses that start with small licks and conclude with not-so-gentle sucks. Mutsuki steps back, until his thighs hit the edge of the conference table; and Urie grabs him around the middle, and lifts, and sits him on the conference table, easy.

Mutsuki gasps, but there’s no space to linger on it; Urie is pushing Mutsuki’s sweater up to his chest, and then prying his shirt free from the hem of his pants and shoving them up as well. Urie’s gloves are smoothing across his body, firing shivers and goosebumps across Mutsuki’s belly, and higher, and lower.

_The hair_ , Mutsuki thinks, _isn’t bad_. The stubble scratches pleasantly against his fingers and the rest of Urie’s hair is still long enough to pull. Urie’s new suit isn’t bad either, but Mutsuki works at the buttons anyway, and then they are both fighting him out of his sleeves, and his slacks.

_I missed this_. The rustle of clothing on the floor — Urie’s hands parting Mutsuki’s thighs, and stroking between them — even the pleasant, achy arch of his own back as he rocks into Urie’s palm, knowing the gloves are already wet and not caring.

It’s just like before. It feels just like before. Urie is erect and stroking his cock against Mutsuki’s sex, moistening himself up, considerably. Then he sets his hands on Mutsuki’s knees, and Mutsuki reaches. He pumps a couple times, but Urie is full already, throbbing; so he poses him between his thighs, and closes them, softly, and then with a squeeze. Urie groans. His shoulders and head bow, hair falling into his face. Mutsuki’s legs are folded over one shoulder; and then he begins to thrust.

It’s just like before. It feels just like before. Urie’s firmness and heat against his clit, relentless; Urie’s weight, sinking, closer, and closer, and closer. Mutsuki spools Urie’s hair in his fingers, digs his nails deep, and asks for just a little more, just a little more, j-just a — _more, more_  — and finally comes, thighs pressing even tighter as Urie gasps above him and spills onto his stomach.

They’re panting. It’s hot, in here. Mutsuki shifts his legs off Urie’s shoulder, and he lets them hang off the edge of the table, one swinging tiredly. A pleasant warmth is fuzzing through his body, blanketing his worries, rolling him up. His arms reach, imploring weakly, and Urie approaches, falling into them. Urie leans, and gives him one more kiss that is just like before. Feels just like before.

For a moment, everything and everyone and especially the two of them are fine, fine, fine.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
